


Happy Halloween!

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Egotober 2017 [31]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-03-26 03:20:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13848984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Halloween is here, and all Bim wanted was to celebrate.





	Happy Halloween!

Halloween morning found each of the figments washed in golden light, fresh power gilding their movements. 

Wilford woke first, excitement suspending him in a strange sort of limbo. He scowled at the light seeping through his window before pulling himself out of bed, shuffling to the bathroom, and flicking on the light. Bleary, he squinted at himself in the mirror. His reflection was always ever so slightly distorted, a fun house mirror, and Wilford felt that it added to the charm. He grinned, finger guns in the glass, and set about brushing his teeth. 

He watched himself as he brushed, mouth full of toothpaste. He was older, questionably wiser, than he’d ever been. Halloween had dawned with the promise of crisp air and his power ever so slightly magnified, but even so, it was a stranger Halloween than any other. Wilford spat a mouthful of pink-tinted foam into the sink, looking down. It just didn’t feel like October without Dark and him trying to put another crazy plan into action, _together_ , and there was a certain bitter nostalgia to the thought.  

Well. Wilford glanced back up into the mirror, starting to run his fingers through his mustache. Power sparked through his hands, the hairs on his face standing on end. The day was still young, after all. 

* * *

It took Wilford the better part of the morning to descend downstairs, head still spinning with the ease of power. The office seemed to warp around him, flicking to his fingers to do his bidding. Even going downstairs seemed easier, his step lighter. 

It didn’t seem to make him quieter: Wilford was halfway through making himself a healthy bowl of cereal when Google_R poked his head into the kitchen, frowning. 

“Wilford, could you please keep the noise level down, we are trying to put our costumes together, and this is not—” he stopped, staring. “What are you doing.”

“Making breakfast!” Wilford grinned, tipping the box of Lucky Charms over carefully. He had several bowls carefully spaced out in front of him—as Google_R watched, Wilford separated marshmallows into one bowl, cereal into the other. “Happy Halloween, Googs.”

“Indeed.” Google_R leaned against the doorway, eyes flashing. “How are you feeling, Wilford?”

Wilford paused to consider the question, tingling power still tracing its path across his skin. “Spooky,” he finally winked, looking across at Google_R. “What about you, Red? Feeling scary?”

“The scariest part of today is your dietary habits.” Google_R watched, eyes narrowed, as Wilford sorted his cereal. “Admittedly, the four of us have been compelled to run a few… experiments.” A well-timed blast rattled the kitchen, and Google_R blinked, eyes glowing bright. 

“Fascinating,” Wilford mocked, winking. He poured the cereal back into the box as Google_R shook his head, then milk over the marshmallows. 

“Disgusting.”

“How subjective of you,” Wilford managed through a spoonful of the stuff, effectively spraying the counter with marshmallow bits. 

“Regardless, good morning.” Google_R ducked back into the hallway with the whirr of an eyeroll, starting to walk away. 

Wilford shouted after him, swallowing hurriedly. “You’re all joining us for dinner, right?” 

“Of course, Wilford.” The sound of the Googles’ door clicking shut, and Wilford giggled to himself, tucking into his breakfast. 

* * *

The Doctor wandered into the kitchen next, looking, haggard, for coffee. 

“Happy Halloween, Doc!”

“Mm. You too, Will.” Dr. Iplier pushed a few buttons on the coffee machine, sighing as the sound of boiling water filled the air. 

“Late night?” Wilford shoveled the rest of his cereal into his mouth before Dr. Iplier could wake up enough to criticize, slurping down the milk. 

“You could say that.” Dr. Iplier leaned against the counter, folding his arms, stifling a yawn. “Ready for the festivities?”

“Am I ever,” Wilford said, avoiding the Doctor’s eye.

“Don’t like the sound of that,” Dr. Iplier muttered, half to himself. 

“What’s that, Doc?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Dr. Iplier turned to grab his coffee, scalding in the pot. 

A splash, and Wilford’s head snapped up. “Are you—”

“Well, _ow_.” Dr. Iplier backed up from the counter, hands outstretched. The smell of coffee, bitter, hit Wilford first, then the all-too-familiar sweet of burning flesh. Looking up, the Doctor’s front was covered in brown liquid quickly giving way to angry, reddened skin. “Aw, _shit_.”

Wilford found a towel, fumbling, and carefully stepped over, righting the upturned coffee pot. “Doc, are you—”

Dr. Iplier shook his head, creased face more annoyance than pain. Wilford hesitated, wringing the towel between his hands. For all his fame, for all the renewed power that Halloween brought, he’d never had to take care of others, much less sympathize with them. Seeing Dr. Iplier breathing hard in pain, the same hands that had patched him up so many times, now bleeding and raw: it stirred something in Wilford’s chest. A measure of uncertainty. 

In a moment, it had passed, and Dr. Iplier straightened up with a sigh. Wilford took a step back, eyes widening, watching. Dr. Iplier’s hands, then arms, then chest, pulsed a silvery blue. 

“That’s better,” he breathed, looking down, flipping his hands over, healed, in something approaching wonder. A beat, and Dr. Iplier met Wilford’s eye again. “Some Halloween, huh?”

“Some Halloween,” Wilford echoed, stunned.

“Well,” Dr. Iplier hummed to himself, skin knit back together, “’morning, Will.” He poured what was left of the coffee into his mug, fingers still seeming to spark with power. 

The Doctor wandered out of the kitchen, coat trailing idly behind him. 

“Don’t forget about dinner,” Wilford called, hesitant. 

He still stared after Dr. Iplier, dumbfounded and more than a little confused. Not at the power, but at the protectiveness that seemed to envelop his heart. It was recognizable, but in an unfamiliar way. Something he’d only ever seen from the outside looking in. 

_“We must not be seen,”_ Dark’s growl, years old, echoed through his mind, and Wilford shook it off with a shudder. Protecting them was _Dark’s_ job. _His_ was madness.

And with madness in mind, Wilford dropped his towel over the steaming coffee and made for the hallway. 

* * *

“The Host is woken, incredibly rudely, by Wilford’s gallivanting in the hallway.”

“Sorry, Hosty,” Wilford sang, waltzing past even louder than before, not sounding sorry at all. The Host listened, grumbling, for Wilford to disappear into another room before closing his own door and retreating back inside.

Alone again, the Host ran his fingers over the rough-hewn wood of his desk before sitting down, lost in thought. Halloween day, and the others seemed to be the same as ever. Halloween day, and power seemed to hover at his fingertips. 

Nothing seemed different. 

The Host breathed, leaning back in his chair. Between the golden honey coating his throat and the silver tongue pressed against his teeth, he was as omniscient as he’d ever been. He let a breath slip out of him again, tension that he didn’t know he’d been holding fading away. A hand swept across his face, dried blood and sweat. There was still a full day ahead, after all, and Halloween night as the sun waned. The Host smiled, lost in thought, looking ahead. Today would be quiet, interrupted only by—

 _Knock-knock-knock._ “Hooooooosty? Don’t forget–”

“The Host will be at dinner, Wilford.”

Wilford laughed on the other side of the door, footsteps receding. The Host shook his head, half in chagrin, half in amusement. His fingers found the top of his desk again, soft paper, pushing himself to his feet. He wasn’t alone here, even in an empty room. 

* * *

Dark drifted to consciousness slowly, the world coming back in bits and pieces. The first thing that hit him was the taste in his mouth, grit between his teeth. It was sharp rust and clinging smoke behind his tongue, and Dark lifted his head, squinting around the room. 

His aura whirled around the walls, sunlight gray in her excitement. As Dark sighed, swinging his legs out of bed, he felt it too– October thirty-first hung palpable in the air, the magic theirs for the taking. Dark closed his eyes and breathed it in, aura snapping around his shoulders with a comfortable weight. 

When his eyes opened again, they were black against the pale of his face, teeth lengthening into fangs. 

It was time. The office was safe, safe enough for him to drop the mantle of protector. No; now, _now_ , it was time for some fun.

He dressed slowly, reveling in the way his skin almost felt real, warm, tingling with energy. His aura howled, impatient, and nudged them into the hall.

A blink, and Dark’s eyes returned to normal.

A breath, and his fangs receded. 

A straightened suit, a demon in sheep’s clothing, and Dark made for the hallway. A murmured narration, a pink tornado, a handful of androids, a well-meaning doctor: none of them could stop him today. 

* * *

Bim’s eyes blinked open slowly, a low buzz filling his ears. His mouth tasted bitter, the aftertaste of cologne. It took him a few moments to realize that he was face down in the plush carpet of the recording booth, and another moment to recognize that what had woken him up was a hard poke to the ribs. 

“Ow.”

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” Wilford giggled, bending over him. “It’s almost noon.”

“Is it really?” Bim grumbled, pushing himself up. 

“Yeah, it—” Wilford’s eyes widened a little as Bim staggered to his feet, shaking the sleep out of his eyes. “Trimmer, you look _terrible_.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“I mean it,” Wilford said, shaking his head. “Did you even sleep?”

“Obviously,” Bim muttered, wiping his face blearily, adjusting his glasses. “I was working.”

“Uh-huh.” Wilford tried to peek surreptitiously at Bim’s notes, strewn across the floor. “Working on what?”

Bim rolled his eyes, pushing Wilford out of the recording booth. “Nothing important, Will.”

“But—”

“How’s Halloween so far?” Bim jumped to another subject, avoiding Wilford’s glare, and started to steer the two of them towards the hallway.

Successfully derailed, Wilford pulled a list out of the air. “Well, we should be all set for an early dinner, and the bowl of candy has been set out, and provided that the costumes are all ready to go, we should be able to leave around seven—” He broke off, looking Bim up and down. 

“What?” Bim paused, holding the studio door open for the two of them.

“Trimmer, you look like a _mess_. This won’t do.”

“I’m _fine_ —”

“You are not.” Wilford put his hands on his hips, blocking Bim’s path out of the studio. 

For a moment, Bim allowed himself to believe that somewhere in there, Wilford cared. 

Wilford spoke, and the illusion was broken. “Your hair is greasy, your suit’s crumpled, and honestly _,_ Bim, do you think you can go outside looking like _that_?”

Bim looked down at himself, forcing a laugh. “You’re totally right, Will. I’ll—”

“Go get cleaned up,” Wilford insisted, pushing Bim towards the dressing rooms. “Then we can talk.” In a moment, Wilford had shoved Bim forward, then disappeared. 

Bim took a deep breath, looking around the studio. It was noon, all right, and glaringly bright outside. Inside, the fake cobwebs swayed a little in the draft, paper spiders smiling down at him. The recording booth, door swung open, seemed to beckon again. Bim stretched, looking away. Despite the invitation, he had other things to do. 

In a moment, the half-sleep that gummed his eyes shut was gone. In its place, the feeling that he’d just stepped out of a cold shower, gasping for breath. Bim steadied himself against the wall for a moment, letting _it_ , whatever it was, wash over him. 

Today, he thought it was power that compelled him to shuffle out of bed and into the studio in the dead of the night. It moved his hands and played his throat like a performer, always in search of more. 

Some days, it was the opposite. It forced him upright and forward, hard and bright, leaving him scrambling. It used him, an instrument out of tune, always too much. 

Today, Bim welcomed it. His first Halloween meant that he was more than he’d ever been. A little more real, a little less terrifyingly close to death.

Bim shook himself out of his thoughts, the fog of power leaving him clear-headed. There was a full day ahead, after all, and it was time to prepare. 

Quietly, Bim vanished down the hall into his dressing room, never quite noticing the slight buzzing in the air. 

* * *

By the time that Bim joined Dr. Iplier in the kitchen, it was far past lunchtime. Shouldering the Doctor aside, Bim reached for a plate of cupcakes, decorated to look like ghosts.

“Those are for later,” Dr. Iplier scolded, pulling the plate away. 

“So?” Bim reached around, grinning, as Dr. Iplier swatted his hand. “I’m going to eat all of them anyway.”

“You are _not._ ” The Doctor scowled good-naturedly, lifting the cupcakes out of harm’s way. “At least not until after dinner, Bim.”

Bim giggled, accepting defeat. “Fine. What else is there? I’m starving.”

“I’m making a sandwich, if you’d like one.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Bim sat at the table, fidgeting a little, as Dr. Iplier bustled around. The smell of coffee seemed to follow him, stronger than ever. “Long night?”

“You wouldn’t believe,” Dr. Iplier chuckled, setting two plates on the table before taking a seat. “Eat up, Bim, you look like you’ve had a similar quality of sleep.”

Smiling, almost wan, Bim started to demolish his meal. Magic was a tiring burden to bear, even as it propelled him forward. 

His burden, and no one else’s. The power had chosen _him_ , he’d like to believe.

Dr. Iplier finished his meal before Bim, and stepped lightly around the kitchen, running water over soapy dishes. Bim walked over with his own plate, but the Doctor stopped him. 

“I can wash my own plate, Doc—”

“That’s all right,” Dr. Iplier said, hurried, pushing a sandwich and fruit into a bag before thrusting it at Bim. “I’ll take care of it, if you could run this over to Will.”

Bim took the package, hesitant. “Are you—”

“All he’s eaten is freeze-dried marshmallows,” Dr. Iplier chuckled, shooting a surreptitious glance out the window. 

Bim followed his gaze, eyes widening. “Okay, Doc, I’ll take it to him.”

Dr. Iplier’s eyes snapped back to Bim’s, a touch of maddening fever in them. “Good, good,” he muttered, distracted. He fumbled away, putting Bim’s plate into the sink, hands suddenly twitching at his sides. 

Bim gave the Doctor a final glance of concern before hurrying back into the hallway, figuring that whatever he was planning under the stormy, darkening sky was something that he didn’t want to be a part of. 

* * *

Bim hurried down the hallway, grinning at the scant decorations lining the walls. There was something like electricity in the air, and he was sure that it wasn’t just the storm clouds overhead, static between the sky and earth. It hung in the air, vibrating, as he tiptoed past Dark’s room. The Host’s room seemed normal enough, flickering candlelight making its way under the door, anticipation in the air. Bim stepped past it almost hesitantly, a tiny part of him wanting to step in and rest with the Host’s voice droning in his ear. The Googles’ door was next, even now rattling and banging, smoke visibly curling through the cracks. As Bim ducked past, he heard the beeping and whirring of four brothers, laughing through another explosion. He cracked a smile, hurrying past the Doctor’s door, cold and dark. The studio, his and Wilford’s rooms beside it, were loud and bright with activity, and Bim paused before walking in.  

The clouds outside were gray and cold, but the hallway was comforting and Bim’s heart was full. Nothing could touch them, not here. Not while Wilford and Dark protected all of them, tooth and nail and magic.

With a breath, he pushed the door open. 

“Oh, bully!”

“Ah… Will?”

A figure dressed from head to toe in tan turned from the stage to huff at Bim, hands on his hips. “Trimmer!”

“Is that your costume?” Bim shut the door behind him, starting to laugh. 

Wilford bowed at the hip, costume crumpling around him. It didn’t fit him very well: his shoulders didn’t quite fill out the epaulets, and it was ever so slightly snug around his middle. Bim giggled as Wilford swept off his hat, a ridiculous bucket-looking thing, and winked at him from behind a pair of round, coke-bottle glasses. 

“How are you, my dear boy?” Wilford’s voice was gruff behind what looked like most of a squirrel plastered on his upper lip, even as he grinned benignly. 

“What—” Bim held back a laugh, seeing Wilford carefully spit stray hairs out of his mouth, “—what are you supposed to be?”

“A hunter,” Wilford said, putting his hat back on, off-kilter. “I used to be in the army,” he said, voice dropping dramatically, and Bim leaned closer to hear, not even seeing Wilford pull a gleaming revolver from his boot. “But then, BANG!” Bim jumped back as Wilford fired a blank into the air, giggling with what seemed to be far too much enthusiasm. “One too many casualties, and they sent me off to Africa.”

Bim clapped, and Wilford strutted about on stage, swinging his gun back and forth. The boots came up to his knee, and Bim didn’t feel up to guessing what other weapons Wilford had hidden on his person, underneath pinned jacket and old-timey trousers. “That’s fantastic, Will, what a good character.”

“Right?” Wilford paused, looking at his gun, and his face seemed to freeze into a brittle smile under the lights. 

Bim was far too excited to notice, digging through the rack of costumes they’d prepared. “My turn, okay?”

Wilford stomped off stage to sit near Bim, watching as he flung clothes off hangers, feverish. “Take your time,” he muttered, carefully ungluing the mustache from his face. “We have hours until dinner.” Underneath, his own pink hair stood on end, ruffled, and Wilford ran his fingers through it as Bim rifled through their clothes.

“What do you think of—no, wait—” Bim threw the last costume aside, brow furrowed. “I could’ve sworn I put it—”

Wilford sat back, impassive, watching Bim rifle through the pile of clothes. “I’m sure it’s in there,” he muttered, stopping just short of rolling his eyes. 

Bim, elbow-deep in fabric, had the presence of mind to look up at Wilford’s reassurance and remember the paper bag of food. “Doc sent some food for you, by the way.”

Wilford huffed, still rubbing glue off of his face. “I’m not really—”

“He really wants you to eat, Wilford.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Wilford folded his arms, lost in thought, before pushing himself off his chair and making for the abandoned lunch. 

Bim found what he was looking for by the time that Wilford had settled down with his meal, and disappeared in a wink to change. Wilford was left alone, rustling paper and the sound of chewing echoing through the studio. 

It was kind of the Doctor, of course, but Wilford was left with a pit in his stomach that had nothing to do with their slightly moldy bread. 

Dark had always taken care of the two of them, as childish as it sounded. Wilford had never been sure where the money came from, but they’d always had a roof over their heads and food on the table. That reassurance, Dark’s cold, hungry smile, the promise of adventure—it was all gone, now, replaced by the office, the other figments. It was the difference between the protection of a knife and the protection of a steel wall. This new existence was impersonal, the forced friendship that came from being stuck in a cell with one other person for forty-odd years.

Wilford crunched the sandwich wrapper in his fist, brushing crumbs off the uniform. It fit _wrong_ , the way that the Host’s smile had been _wrong_ , after the Author had left them. 

It was Halloween, and the office was safe behind a steel wall, and the figments inside it were safe in their cells, and Wilford was safe for the four knives he’d strapped to his hip, his side, his boots. Even safe, even now, it was more than a little strange to have the Doctor sending him a lunch, a schoolboy with thrice-skinned knees. 

Bim reappeared, and Wilford immediately found his voice again, thoughts shoved aside. “What is _that_?”

“It’s my costume!” Bim grinned, bouncing on his toes, looking down at himself. His clothes looked like something Mark would wear, if Mark had then been rolled through the mud, run over by a train several times, and passed through a meat grinder. 

“What are you supposed to be, again?” Wilford tossed the remnants of his meal aside, looking Bim up and down critically. “It’s not very obvious.”

Bim grinned, ear to ear, and shook his finger. “That’s why we need makeup, Will. Want to help?”

Wilford, finally catching up, grinned and tossed his hat and glasses aside. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

Dr. Iplier was the first one downstairs. He’d fixed the hair, finally, and complete with mask and cap, he thought that he made a fitting Dr. Schneeplestien. Brushing the green of the wig out of his eyes, the Doctor set to warming the dinner they’d made. A cozy Halloween, even in too-big scrubs and with the shadow of guilt hanging over his head. 

He shook the clouds out of his thoughts, focusing instead on the warmth of the stove and the way that the sun looked as it set, cool October breeze blowing against the windows. 

The Googles were next, carefully shooing the Doctor out of the kitchen. 

“You’re not even in costume,” Dr. Iplier muttered, wiping his hands.

“We will be soon,” Google_G scolded, as Oliver staggered in with a box. He gave Dr. Iplier a light push out of the kitchen, laughing. “Sit down, rest, Doctor. It has been a long day, after all.”

Dr. Iplier laughed too, shrugging Google_G off and making for the dining room. He hoped that the power of Halloween hid the bags under his eyes, the slight tremor to his hands. He hoped, as he always had, that the others didn’t worry. Slumping into his chair, the Doctor ran a hand through the wig, sliding his mask off his face. All according to plan.

The Host walked in, quiet, to find Dr. Iplier sitting with his head in his hands. Pulling out the chair nearest him, the Host sat, listening to the Doctor take deep, steadying breaths. 

“It’s been a week,” Dr. Iplier finally mumbled, not even looking up.

“Understandable,” the Host murmured, offering little. 

For the Doctor, the reprieve of silence was enough. He sat for another moment, comforted, for the time-being, by the presence of something more. A friend. 

The Host moved, rustling, an unfamiliar _clink_ , and Dr. Iplier looked up. “Host? Are you… a pilot?”

“Perhaps.” A smile tugged at his lips, and the Host gave Dr. Iplier a mock salute. His bandage was obscured by a blindfold, decorative, tied under an ill-fitting cap. 

“Are you a _blind pilot_?”

“I thought that much was clear—”

“This is the best thing I’ve seen all week.” Dr. Iplier threw his head back, laughing, and the Host struggled to suppress a jolt of warmth shooting through his chest. “That’s _fantastic_.”

“I am glad you think so.” The Host allowed himself a chuckle, tugging carefully at his hat. He had a dark blue uniform on, a pilot’s wings pinned to his lapel. It was enough of a departure from his usual wear to make him uncomfortable, but the Doctor’s laughter, his own silly costume, made it a bit more worthwhile. At least, here, he wasn’t alone in his silliness. 

Of course, it only ever felt as if he was letting his guard down. 

“Am I interrupting something?” A harsh ringing punctuated every word, and Dr. Iplier saw the shoulders of the Host’s uniform strain as he turned his head towards the door. 

“Dark.”

“In the flesh.” Dark walked in with an unfamiliar, stiff grace, the shadows around him warping into inky blackness. 

Dr. Iplier restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “Nice of you to join us.”

“Of course.” The words were almost a purr, and Dark dropped into his seat at the head of the table. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

“We?” the Host started to scoff, but Dr. Iplier interrupted him with something approaching moderation. 

“Where’s your costume, Dark?” 

“This _is_ my costume.”

“A drama queen? Perfect,” the Host muttered, for no one’s ears but Dr. Iplier’s and his own. 

Dark leaned close, movements still somehow unnaturally jerky. “What’s that?”

Dr. Iplier spoke over both of them, struggling to keep the peace. “Now, that’s just cheap. You do have to get in the spirit—”

“I don’t see a point.” Dark drummed his fingers against the table, a choppy melody. “Don’t you think that’s a bit _childish_ , Host? Playing dress-up, pretending to be something you’re not, and never will be?”

“The Host doesn’t know,” the Host snapped, crossing his arms. “The Host would rather ask Darkiplier that question.”

A shadow passed over Dark’s face, and he brushed his hair aside with clumsy, deliberate fingers. It looked as if he was about to say something, but before Dr. Iplier could interject—

“Happy Halloween!”

“Bim, you have to stay in character,” Wilford grumbled, ushering the two of them into the dining room.

“Um, ‘brains’?” Bim giggled a little, shuffling into the seat across from Dr. Iplier. “Hey, Schneep.”

“Ah, yes,” Dr. Iplier immediately refocused, his attention on his awful accent rather than Dark’s eye. “Welcome to the land of the living, eh, Bim?”

Bim shook his head a little, smiling even under his stage makeup. Dr. Iplier looked over it with interest, admiring. Their skill with liquid latex had come a long way, and, if he was honest, Wilford’s accuracy with representing rotting flesh was almost concerning. 

“I’m a zombie,” Bim said, barely moving his face to keep it all in place. “Cool, huh?”

“Very cool,” Dr. Iplier laughed. “Do you still have a taste for human flesh?”

“Look,” Bim shot back, trying to keep from splitting his face into a grin, “that was _one_ time.”

The Host unsuccessfully held back a dry laugh, and Bim turned to him critically. “Hey, Host. Are you…”

“He is.”

Bim giggled, fighting to keep the latex on his cheeks from cracking. “I _love_ it.” He said with a depth of sincerity, and the Host shook his head with a light smile, Dark’s words forgotten. 

“And you, Wilford?” Dr. Iplier turned to Wilford, still standing in the doorway. 

“What do you think?” Wilford strutted forward, chest puffed to fill the uniform. 

“Interesting enough,” the Host muttered, sitting back. Dr. Iplier looked over at him, but the Host only shrugged, waiting. 

“Well, I like it,” Dr. Iplier said, as Wilford made his way to stand at his head of the table. “A military man, right? It suits you.”

“I’d think so,” Wilford hummed, twirling his gun around his finger. “Thoughts, Darkipoo?”

All eyes turned to Dark at his end of the table, spectators at a tennis match. 

Dark had gone, if possible, stiffer than usual. His eyes flicked from Wilford’s face, half-obscured by a brown, bushy mustache and round glasses, to the eagle insignia on his chest. 

Wilford huffed into his mustache, forcing civility. “Oh, bully. Cat got your tongue?”

Dark stood, slow, glowering. “Colonel.”

“Hunter, actually,” Wilford started, quailing under Dark’s stare. There was something in his face that was terrifyingly familiar, a brittle kind of sadness. “I used to—”

“Shut up.” 

Wilford stopped, for the first time in living memory, to listen. 

Dark held himself up, the slightest tremor to his stare. Not from weakness, but the kind of shakiness that comes after holding a too-heavy load for far too long. It was a crack in his shell, the splitting of hairs. 

The room held its breath, and Dark gestured with the slight creaking of bone, eyes locked with Wilford over the heads at the table. “Nice to see you.”

Wilford saw, even if he imagined, the flicker in Dark’s eyes. “You too, Big D.”

The Host broke the tension, a scoff in the silence, and the door to the kitchen burst open. 

“Happy Halloween!” The Googles trooped in, and the room seemed to breathe, turning to look at them. 

“Googs!” Bim perked up from where he’d been trying to disappear into his seat, ignoring the way that Wilford and Dark were shooting each other death glares down the length of the table. 

“We are not the droids you are looking for,” one of them beeped, voice muffled by the mask. The next bot swatted him, the dull clunk of armor on armor. 

Dr. Iplier gave a low whistle, shaking off the lingering tension in the room. “Stormtroopers?”

“Indeed.” One of them whirred a bit, lifting a hand. All four glowed, red, blue, green, yellow under the chinks in their suits. “I believe this is an appropriate costume, yes?”

“Very,” Dr. Iplier said, smiling, as Bim clapped. The Host shook his head gently, and Wilford ripped himself away from Dark to nod his approval.

“Do you have…”

“E-11 blasters,” Oliver said, yellow light shining as he nodded. “They are modeled after the Sterl—”

“First,” Google_R interrupted, and the others could hear his eyes roll behind his helmet, “dinner, shall we?”

By the time that the sun had really set outside, the Googles had set the table and carried the platters of food out, carefully prepared (really, poofed into existence) the day before. 

Bim looked up and down the table as the Googles sat down, helmets set to one side, Google_B now talking earnestly to—at—the Host about inconsistencies during the Clone Wars. Dark sat almost peacefully, drumming his fingers against the table as if he was trying to learn how to move his hands again, watching the others babble: warm conversation in a bright-lit room, storm clouds gathering outside. Dr. Iplier eyed the windows between snatches of conversation with Google_G, watching the other Googles dole out portions to every plate. Wilford nudged Bim, grinning, and Bim looked over, smiling back. 

“Some Halloween, huh, Trimmer?”

“Some Halloween, Wilford.”

* * *

Dark, surprisingly enough, was amicably silent through dinner. He ate about as much as the Googles, looking around at them all with a slow, feline blink. 

Wilford, Bim, and the Googles argued about Star Wars inconsistencies, Wilford gesturing wildly with his fork, crumbs spewing across the table. Bim and Google_G exchanged glances as Google_B and Oliver started to pull up data points, Wilford still blustering on about prop design. 

Dr. Iplier and Google_R ignored the others almost completely, listening to the Host spin a scary story about eight little boys who all looked very alike, and one that didn’t. 

Slowly, the lights started to dim around their little table, and Bim had the presence of mind ot check his watch. 

“Hey!” Bim stood up, fast enough to knock his chair over. 

Google_G fell back to catch it before it hit the floor, looking up. “Yes, Bim?” All eyes were on him, the rolling conversation of the room interrupted. 

“It’s time to go, we have to go!” Bim pushed the remnants of his plate away, piled with cupcake wrappers. Wilford jumped to his feet to follow, hastily brushing down his mustache. The rest of the table followed suit, a little confused, but roused from their post-meal haze by the scent of adventure.

“Sorry,” Dark spoke up, practically a drawl, and there was a moment of pause as even Bim stopped at the door, looking back. “Where are we going, Bim?”

Bim’s sudden hesitation was visible even under the zombie makeup, and his hands started to twitch. “Uh, well, it’s…”

“It’s Halloween,” Wilford boomed, clapping Bim on the shoulder. Bim jumped, imperceptible, as Dark scowled across at them all nearly out the door. “Trick-or-treat, Darky, ever heard of it?”

A breath of unfamiliar silence, Dark tapping his fingers in a broken melody. Waiting.

“Absolutely not.”

“But Da-arky—”

“I didn’t ask for your permission,” Bim snapped, sudden, and the others parted in front of him, each unwilling to be between him and Dark. One suit-wearing figment to another, Bim stared Dark down with a glint of steel. His hands were beginning to spark.

“One would think that the incubus could control his emotions,” Dark murmured, looking altogether amused.

Dark’s placid smile was enough to bring Bim bac down to earth, and Bim’s shoulders dropped in an instant. “I—” He broke his and Dark’s stare, looking around to see the others eyeing him with something approaching fear. 

“Ah, Bim?” Dr. Iplier stepped forward, a warm hand outstretched. Bim looked down, ignoring the way that his fingers were suddenly tingling, the second after touching a hot stove, a second before the pain.

In a moment, the Doctor and Googles had whisked Bim carefully from the room, Google_B throwing a knowing glance at Dark as they left.

Wilford turned to the Host. “Hosty,” he started, taking his best stab at being jovial, “what do you—”

“For once,” the Host huffed, pulling up the ribbon over his bandages, “the Host agrees with Darkiplier.”

“But—”

“It’s far too dangerous,” Dark growled, finally standing. As he stood, his legs unfolded from under him, ungainly, even considering Mark’s own knees. Wilford tried not to stare, and the Host, having no such issue, only smiled to himself. Dark glanced between the two of them before speaking again, voice low, skin somehow a shade paler. “None of you should be outside on Halloween.”

“You’re one to talk,” Wilford muttered, but Dark cut him off with a glare. Wilford threw his hands in the air, seeing, but not caring for, the way the Host took a step back. “What do you want to tell Trimmer, then?”

“Anything else.” Dark stalked a little farther off, stiff. “Go on, then.”

The Host sighed, stopping Wilford’s blustering. “Will a movie night be… agreeable?”

Wilford rolled his eyes, even so, the knot in his chest loosening. “All right. Fine.” 

The Host trailed Wilford into the hallway, shaking his head. From the living room came hushed whispers and beeps, Bim’s voice still a little higher above the rest. 

“Host?” Wilford stopped, the Host nearly colliding with him. 

“The answer to the question that Wilford is about to ask is ‘no,’” the Host murmured, head lowered. 

“But—”

“It is not as if Wilford has ever tried to protect anyone before,” he interrupted, a note of something almost sad coloring his voice. “Why now, the Host wonders?”

“No need to show off,” Wilford snapped, a sudden harshness that he didn’t have the time to regret.

“Wilford and Dark are not the only ones whose powers are amplified.” The Host’s voice dropped, guttural. “And Wilford would do well to remember it.”

The Host brushed past Wilford with a movement like a ghost: uniforms, tan and navy, crumpling against each other. In a moment, he’d disappeared into the living room, the others waiting just beyond the threshold. 

Wilford lingered for a moment more, the hallway suddenly like the space between breaths. It was Halloween, a near-peaceful evening, and something was _wrong_. 

It wasn’t Dark, not really, the way he moved like a puppet with cut strings.

It wasn’t the Host’s ominous warnings, or even Bim’s misplaced enthusiasm. 

It was the way that the other figments had gently ushered Bim from the room with a hand against his back. Bim, the newest Ego, a figment that shouldn’t really exist. 

It was the way that Dark and the Host looked away from him with distaste, as if he didn’t belong at his head of the table, or even with them in the room. 

Wilford repressed a shudder, looking around the darkened hallway. He belonged here, of course he did. He was the best of all of them, power and charm.

 _Yeah_ , he reassured himself, stepping closer to the living room. He didn’t have to be serious to be a force to be reckoned with, like Dark or the Host. 

_But_ , his own voice nagged, pulling him back towards the kitchen. He couldn’t carry on like this, all sugar and no spice. 

Caught in the middle, Wilford huffed into his mustache. The fake, brown one was starting to peel away. The uniform didn’t fit, uncomfortably restricting. 

Even if it was a happy middle, it was a lonely one. 

“Will?” Dr. Iplier poked his head out of the living room, beckoning Wilford in. 

Wilford shook himself out of his thoughts, a smile back on his face. “Yeah, Doc?”

Dr. Iplier gave him a searching look, brief, but all too knowing. “Well, I believe that we’ve come to an agreement for the night.”

“Movie night?”

“Better!” Bim yelled from the couch, seemingly placated by a Google on either side and a bowl of popcorn in his lap. 

The television started to narrate, Mark’s ill-gotten Netflix password put to good use. “An old woman living in a nightmare, an old woman who has fought a thousand battles with death…”

“Are we watching—

“…this seemingly ordinary door leads to the Twilight Zone.”

Hallway forgotten, Wilford hurried forward to dive over the back of the sofa, landing upside down next to Oliver. “I love this episode!”

Oliver looked down at Wilford, disapproving shrug ever so slightly limited by his costume’s armor. “Nothing in the Dark is an allegorical response to the human condition, something that _you_ , of all people—”

Google_G reached across Bim to whack Oliver’s arm, effectively silencing him. Bim hushed them, flapping his hands to call for silence as the title screen faded. 

Dr. Iplier settled down near them, a book clasped in his hand, and started to read. The Host, taking his hat off, leaned into an armchair with his arms crossed over his chest. Slowly, his breathing evened out, steady and quiet. 

After a moment, Dark, too, walked into the living room, leering around at the others sprawled comfortably, watching the episode play. Both Google_G and Oliver leapt to their feet, a hand on Bim’s shoulders.

“Come sit, Darky.” Wilford slid carelessly to the ground, landing next to Google_R, who spared him a look of disgust before scooting away. 

Dark took a look at the screen, eyebrows raised in silent judgement, but lowered himself onto the end of the couch farthest from Bim. Bim looked over, eyes flicking from the screen for only a moment, and the room held its breath again. A moment, and Bim curled into his side of the sofa, all but ignoring him. 

Google_G rolled his eyes, a tiny whirr, and pulled Oliver over to sit next to Dr. Iplier. Oliver looked over his shoulder as he read, and Dr. Iplier gently moved the book so they could both flip the pages. Google_G passed around a bucket of candy, but somehow, it never found its way past Wilford.

Google_R, far enough away from Wilford, Dark, and Bim, moved closer to Google_B, who’d pulled one of their costume helmets into his lap, fingers working over the mouth guard. The Host, next to them, nodded his head before dozing back off. They sat, side by side, watching the black-and-white characters on screen.

All of them accounted for, and all of them silent and content. 

* * *

Thunder rumbled outside, and Bim looked up. “Oh. Rain.”

Dr. Iplier looked over, neck nearly snapping in his hurry to look out of the window. “Yep, yep,” he repeated under his breath. “Rain.”

Bim sat back, one hand buried in the candy bucket. “Hmm.” He shrugged his shoulders, almost indifferent, just short of bitter. “Guess that trick-or-treating wouldn’t have worked out anyway, huh, Dark?”

Dark was silent, staring unblinking at the TV.

Dr. Iplier fidgeted a moment more, flipping through his book before shutting it with a snap. “Right. Well, I’ll have to excuse myself, if you don’t mind.”

Olive turned, brow furrowing. “Why—”

Google_G hushed him, looking critically between the Doctor and the window. “Let him go, Oliver.”

Dr. Iplier gave the tiniest nod before hurrying out, even now pulling his wig off, running his hands through his hair. Google_G and Oliver watched him go, quiet. Google_R and _B hardly looked up, now discussing helmet integrity in low voices, happy mutterings. 

The Host shifted comfortably in his seat, obviously not asleep, but not awake, either. Wilford blinked, looking around in time to see the door swing shut. He looked up at Bim, candy starting to melt between his fingers, and forced half a grin.

Dark remained fixated on the television, silent, and Wilford raised an eyebrow.

* * *

Dark poked his head into the living room, watching Netflix auto-play lull the others into a daze. From the door, he could see the back of Bim’s head nodding off to sleep, the Googles puddled on the floor, even Wilford’s legs poking out from behind the sofa. His own head was pointed towards the TV, the illusion sitting next to Bim flickering ever so slightly. 

Satisfied with his alibi, Dark closed the door silently. As far as any of the others were concerned, he was watching TV with the rest of them. 

Now, it was time for the rest of his plan to go into action. 

He waited until he was outside the office, making sure to lock the door behind him. There was something oddly familiar about this, shoving the keys deep into his pocket, wind biting through his shirt. Alone, with only the clouds overhead for company. 

Dark took a deep breath, closing his eyes. One, two, three. His neck cracked, held stiff and straight. 

When his eyes opened again, they were black against the pale of his face, teeth lengthening into fangs. 

When his eyes opened, they were no longer _his_ : and Dark was, for the first time in a long time, not in control. 

It was starting to rain, now, and Dark passed through the parking lot with careful steps, his suit already slightly damp. He watched it happen, felt the cold seeping through his shirt, as if he was watching someone else do it. For once, he was a passenger in his own body, a slave to the power, rather than the other way around. 

_Where?_ A question, more like a demand, from the aura. She was in control, and Dark only the navigator.

 _West_ , Dark responded, reaching forward. _Let me—_

 _No._ She yanked them in the direction Dark indicated, smoke curling. Almost too late, Dark found the black of his aura flickering far too fast, up his spine, ripping what little control he had from his fingertips.

Dark felt it as it happened, his suit tearing, shoulders hulking, nails lengthening. Claws, blackened fingers, a sharp tongue behind sharper teeth. Father from human, and yet so much more. His aura not just controlling, but corrupting. 

In an instant, Dark saw himself moving forward, faster then should have been possible, down the rain-soaked highway. In another instant, his presence of mind had dissolved as if he was about to be hit by a speeding plane: it left him frozen, too pumped full of adrenaline to do anything but stare, wide-eyed, into his own demise. 

He watched what she did with his body—a new puppet, torn suit and black-veined muscles—through fogged glass. He was in the suburbs, suddenly, whirling through hedges and across muddy lawns. Dark pushed, but it was against a steel wall. 

It was useless, anyway. The aura knew. She knew where her prey was, and nothing was about to stop her. 

She stomped through the wet underbrush, a light on in the house ahead. One more bush, and—

* * *

“Look, I have a right to be paranoid, okay?” Mark paced the floor, ignoring the chattering of their Halloween movie in the background. 

“We’re not saying that you don’t,” Amy started, gentle. “We’re asking you to let us help.”

“You don’t get it,” Mark muttered, pacing, if anything, faster. “Nobody gets it.”

“Then stop being an idiot,” Tyler said, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. Mark looked as if he was about to shake Tyler’s hand off, but had thought better of it. 

“I’m being _reasonable—_ ”

“You are.” Kathryn, behind him, spoke up with arms crossed over her chest.

“He’s what?” Even Amy eyed her with concern. “Kat, this isn’t—”

“I get it, okay?” Kathryn stepped forward as Tyler stepped back, Ethan at his elbow. “Dark has put you through hell and back.”

Mark looked up, meeting someone else’s eyes for the first time all day. “Yeah,” he managed.

“And on Halloween, too.”

“It’s been five years!” Ethan spoke over the two of them, trying to come across as comforting. “You—Mark, you’ve come so far since then.”

“So has _he_ ,” Mark muttered, still throwing glances out the window, lighting cracking under the clouds. “I’m just…”

“It’s okay to be scared,” Amy said, moving forward. For once, Mark let her. She came close enough to touch him, but held back, searching his face. “None of us know what that’s like, Mark.”

“Well—” Tyler started to interrupt, but Ethan shushed him. 

“They’re having a _moment_ , shh.”

Kathryn drew back too, looking as if she wanted to say something, but saying nothing. 

“We can help you,” Amy prompted, offering her hand for Mark to clasp, if he met her halfway. 

He shot a glance at Kathryn, then at Tyler, before taking her hand. “I don’t—I’m—”

“Look,” Kathryn said, and again, she had their full attention. “They have the office, and I’m more than sure that Will and Dark can occupy themselves for one night. And besides—”

“But—” Mark started again, and Kathryn sighed. “Sorry,” he muttered, waiting for her to go on.

“And besides,” she continued, half-smiling, “you’re not all alone in a weird apartment, are you?”

Amy grinned, finding a loophole. “We’re going to watch Halloweentown, and sleep with the lights on, and—”

“And eat loads of candy!” Ethan butted in, linking arms with Kathryn to pull her around the room, laughing. 

“And if you feel anything weird,” Tyler said, turning back to Mark with concern in his eyes, “we’ll be right here.”

“Does that sound okay?” Amy held Mark’s hand close, her own fingers wrapped round as if trying to protect it. 

“I’m sorry,” Mark muttered, but Amy shook her head. 

“Sit down,” Tyler said, tossing a pillow and bedding at them like a blanket over a birdcage. “Get comfy. We’ll be here a while.”

Mark watched Ethan and Kathryn race for the popcorn as they settled down, beanbags on the floor. The glow from the television was bright, the room was warm, and for the first time in a long time, he felt safe. “A while.” He looked at Amy, mid-laugh, and Tyler, mid-smirk. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

* * *

Dark watched his plan slip through his fingers. His aura pushed through someone’s backyard, upending pots and ripping through a fence, wood and dirt flying. The house ahead was Mark’s, the back doors illuminated from within. Dark saw, through the rain and the blur of miasma, the outline of five people inside. 

His aura saw them, too, in the way that a predator senses movement. She slowed, if only infinitesimally, smoke obscuring them from view. 

_This isn’t part of the plan._ Dark snapped, rain seeping into their shoulders. 

_It is now_ , she hissed back, but pausing nonetheless. There was only one hedge between her and limitless, infinite power. 

_You can’t kill him_.

 _Can’t,_ she mocked, _or shouldn’t?_

 _We still need him_. Dark glanced at the house, the humans curled in a heap on the floor. 

_For?_

Dark didn’t have an answer, and the wind whipped around him.

_Coward._

A moment, and the impulse passed. She was catching her breath, positioning herself for the kill. Dark looked around—really looked—and saw something fresh through the rain, illuminated by a flash of lightning. 

He didn’t need Mark, not really. They needed the channel, his influence, his power. If he wanted revenge… He could afford to be impulsive, now. 

She was right. His aura was right, and Dark swore that it wasn’t the power going to his head. They could get _rid_ of him, and maybe that had been the plan all along. 

His aura felt the moment that Dark’s defenses dropped, the moment that he let her in. 

As he did, Dark felt the miasma finally trickle into place. He didn’t dare look, but he knew what was happening: his fingers were already claws, blackened with blood and miasma. The corruption was spreading, every vein in his body standing black against pale skin, muscles bulging. It was a holdover from the old days, when the fans thought of him as little more than a killing machine. 

Well. 

His eyes were black, but open wide. Dark could almost fool himself into thinking that it was he who moved his body forward, he who was in control. 

His aura said nothing more, a silent smile as she pulled the strings. 

Together, for once, they took a step forward. 

But as they did, the rain-drenched bushes rustled, thunder rolling overhead. Lightning again, trees casting twisted shadows, the flash of round glasses. 

Dark blinked, and a lone figure stood between them and power, bucket hat and mustache dripping in the pouring rain.

* * *

“Dark.”

“C͎̤̯͖̪̬̀o̮̻͔͟l͖̳̪̘o̯͜ͅn̵̖̭̲̹̦e͇l͡.”

“Turn around. Go home.”

Dark felt his face stretch into a grin, eyes somehow focusing on Will and the moving shadows inside the house at the same time, even dripping black smoke. 

“Go. Home.” A revolver, pulled from nowhere. “Dark, please.”

He was the only thing between them and power. The Colonel, gleaming gun and tilted head. 

“I̴͚͕̩̥n͏͇̝ ̷̹͎͖̺͚͈̰m̶͎̖͖y͉̭̪̬̥̦͟ ̪w̸͖a͚̹͓͡ͅy͏̩̝͕.”

“You know the rules.” His voice was almost pleading, for all that it was measured. “We must not be seen.”

Dark snapped his head to one side, the creaking of bone. 

Will cocked his gun. “None of us should be outside on Halloween. C’mon, Big D.”

Dark took a step forward, thunder cracking. “I̧̲͕̼͍'͖̗̳͈͙̟̕m̼̺͝ ͖͚̣̫̱͠n̢̰͎o̭̬͓̪̼͎t͢ ̯̘̕h͖̭̰ͅe̢͕̩re̬͉̟̟ ̣̤̖͇͍̤͕͠f͝o̶̭̗ͅr͓͕͢ ̡̫̳̞͕̳ỳ̤ou̗̬̬̳̯͉.”

“You’ll have to go through _me_ first.”

The aura moved forward, fangs bared, but Dark hesitated for the first time. Wilford was standing with Mark. Against him. 

“Last chance.” Wilford brought the gun to eye level, tone still forced, level. “Go home.”

A flash of lightning, and Dark lunged. 

* * *

Bim shook himself awake, trying to focus on the episode. The Host snored lightly, cap in hand, and the Googles had long since dropped off. Google_G was curled close around Oliver on the couch, Oliver holding himself stiff. Google_R and Google_B slumped against each other, helmets held in loose-curled fingers. Wilford, on the floor, was sleeping with both of his mustaches fluttering, over and over. 

Bim looked over at Dark, expecting to see him asleep—or at the very least, armed with a sardonic comment. 

Dark still sat, ramrod straight, against the couch, eyes fixed on the television screen. 

“Hey, Dark?” Bim stretched, a little unnerved. “It’s kind of late, do you think we should sleep?”

Dark didn’t respond, not even blinking. 

“Da-ark?” Bim hesitated before putting an arm out, waving it in front of Dark’s eyes. “Anyone home?” Bim reached out as if expecting to be burned, and carefully prodded Dark’s shoulder. “Hey—”

In an instant, Dark’s body wavered, then dissolved into shadow and light. 

Bim fought a scream, looking around. The others were asleep, and no one had noticed that Dark had just, apparently, faded. 

Not wanting to wake the others, Bim reached down to nudge Wilford awake, hopefully silently. As Bim’s foot touched Wilford’s, he, too, flickered and faded.

This time, Bim really did scream.

“Bim, that is entirely unnec—” Oliver sat up, untangling Google_G from around him, then stopped. “Wilford? Dark?”

Bim, shaking on the couch, stared back with wide eyes. “I-I touched them,” he whispered, hugging his arms. “They just—disappeared.”

Oliver opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to reconsider. “Are you… all right?”

Bim shook his head, jaw clenched. 

Oliver reached over to shake Google_G awake, surreptitiously rolling his eyes. “Emotions,” he muttered, by way of explanation. 

Google_G swung himself upright, looking around. “Bim?”

“Will and-and Dark, they—”

“They are not gone,” Google_G reassured, hurrying over. “You understand, Bim, they must have retired to their rooms and not wanted to disturb you.”

“But—”

“I will go check, if you like,” Oliver said, the offer directed mostly at Google_G. 

Google_G nodded, pulling the bucket of candy away from Bim, and Oliver ducked soundlessly into the hallway. 

Bim hugged his knees a little closer to his chest, giving a watery laugh. “Sorry, Green, I just got a little spooked.”

“That is understandable,” Google_G said, sitting back to fill Dark’s spot. “It is Halloween, Bim.”

“So it is.” Google_B had woken, too, trying not to disturb Google_R. “Have you not enjoyed the holiday thus far?”

“I have,” Bim murmured, uncurling a little. “It’s been a fun day, Googs.”

“There is no need to be ‘spooked,’ then, correct?”

“I just wanted to share it with you guys, y’know?” Bim chanced a look at the spots where the illusions of Dark and Wilford had sat, now cold.

“Well…” Google_G exchanged a look with Google_B, a conversation. “You must remember that we are not exactly the same as you, Bim.”

“Dark and Wilford least of all,” Google_R said, sitting up, making Bim jump. 

“I just thought… we could all be friends,” Bim muttered, half-guilty, smoothing back his hair. 

Google_R started to respond, something along the lines of “Bim, that is hopelessly childish,” but the stomping of feet in the hallway interrupted him.

Oliver ran through the door, lights across his suit flashing in panic. 

“Oliver?” Google_B stood first, every inch their leader in the absence of the heads of the table. 

“Dark and Wilford are—”

“Gone?” The Host sat up, ears perked. 

Oliver nodded, fans whirring, as if he was out of breath. 

“ _Gone_?” Bim whipped around, fast enough to crick his neck. “Wh-where—” Bim’s hands started to spark again, runaway power, and he clenched his fists.

Google_G moved forward first, a hand against Bim’s back. “It does not mean anything, Bim, perhaps they—”

“They what? Perhaps they _what_?” Bim snapped, flinching. A wave of purple radiated from him, pushing the others away. 

“Bim—”

“There is no reason to be—”

The Host straightened his uniform, prepared for Bim’s outburst, and spoke above the clamor. “Bim.”

Bim looked up, eyes glowing a blank, fierce magenta. “What?”

The Host didn’t flinch back the way the Googles did, each of their eyes narrowing. “Events are going to proceed quickly, now,” he said, speaking quickly, and a hush fell over the room, every eye on the Host. “Bim has to pull himself together. This depends on him.”

The knot in his stomach dissolving, Bim blinked, eyes going back to normal. “Wait, what? What depends on me?”

The Host shook his head, lightning flashing outside. Somehow, he seemed farther away than the rest of them. “Googles. Don’t move.”

“What—” 

A clap of thunder, the windows rattling, and there was the sound of a door slamming open in the front of the office.

The Googles exchanged a look before scrambling to their feet, Oliver in the lead, and sprinting for the door. All four snatched up their helmets on the way out, fully armed. Bim jumped up after them, ignoring the way that his aura splashed around his ankles, power pushing him forward. The Host sighed before pushing himself to his feet, following. 

“They never listen.”

* * *

Dark reached the office a half step ahead of Wilford, smoke throwing the door open in front of him. Out of the rain, the aura filled the room, shrieking. Dark fell to his knees in the middle of the floor, a scream ripping itself from his chest. It was almost theirs, power had _almost_ been theirs, but now—

Wilford staggered in after him, slamming the front door and locking it. As water dripped down his face, all he could think of was their mad dash to the office. _You must not be seen. We must not be seen._

Before either of them could move, the Googles ran in, barreling through the door between the Egos’ dimension and the humans’. “Dark?”

“Wilford?”

“Googles?”

“G̲̱o̩͓̥͕͉͍o͙̱͚͇̠̖̻͠g̣̪̼̪͖l̴͙̩e̤s̴̲͍̣.̮͇͖̜”

All four of them drew back, beeping in alarm. Oliver pulled them farther back by the collars of their armor, hissing, “ _That is not Dark_.”

Bim poked his head up from behind the wall of androids, feeling his knees starting to tremble. “What—”

Dark—whatever it was, collapsed on the floor in a puddle of tar—looked up. “Ṭ͘r̶i̛͚̦͖̖̤̟̳mm̞̮e̙͉̹͝r̠̻̮͙̙̩.͍͓̱̫̩̦͉" A voice in his head howled, an animal on the brink of death. _He’s the source of all this. Trimmer and his celebrations. Trimmer and his friendship._

_End him._

The Host, near-unnoticed, slipped into the room to listen.

The Googles made to push Bim back into their dimension, back to safety. Dark gathered himself up, and even from here, Google_G could see that something wasn’t right. 

Dark held his neck at an odd angle, the look of someone that had snapped it too many times to count. His body was broken into shards, black blood leaking through the cracks in his shell. Google_G made eye contact for a moment, Dark’s eyes blacked out in rage, and recognized, if only for a moment, that he was staring down two entities kneaded into one body. 

“Get back,” Google_R snapped, and he and Google_B edged themselves in front of the others. 

Dark’s aura reached out, smoke screaming, forming shapes in the air. It was the rage of defeat, the anger of a millennia-old being with nothing left to lose. The miasma snaked towards the Googles first, vengeance bordering on insanity.

“Dark, no–!” Wilford lunged forward, trying to stop it, but Dark’s aura reached an arm out to push him to the ground, glasses askew. 

Google_B moved faster than Google_R, and ducked under the whip of the shadows. Google_R, even trying to move out of the way, caught the full breadth of the blow.

The shadows sent him flying, armor useless as his body slammed into a wall like a ragdoll. Google_R slid to the floor, and didn’t get back up. 

Google_G flinched, and Bim felt the movement with a jolt of panic. Dark was going to hurt them. Dark had already hurt them. He realized what had to happen before the others did, and took a breath in the second that it took Dark to turn around, seething smoke. 

“Dark.” Bim shouldered through the wall of armored metal, even as Oliver reached out to try and drag him back. 

“Wait,” Google_B whispered, shooting a glance at the Host, leaning against the wall, then Wilford, huddled on the floor. “Just wait.”

Dark faced Bim down, his hands poised at his sides with what looked like black flame flying off of them. “Ṭ͘r̶i̛͚̦͖̖̤̟̳mm̞̮e̙͉̹͝r̠̻̮͙̙̩.͍͓̱” _You did this._

“Are you going to fight me, Dark?” Bim didn’t know where his poise came from, but he supposed it had something to do with the lavender tint to the room, the feeling of ice freezing along his spine. 

It was Halloween, after all, and the power had _chosen_ him. 

Dark didn’t offer a civil response, stepping forward and drawing himself to his full height. Bim blinked, looking him over. His suit was torn, stained with smoke, and the oily shadows whipped around him. For a moment, Bim thought that he saw the outline of wings in the darkness, jet-black feathers and black fire. 

As if by an unspoken word, Dark and Bim started to circle the room, prowling the corners. Dark moved quickly, poised, a hair-trigger away from pouncing. Bim stepped to the side, and forward, towards Dark.

Wilford looked up from his puddle on the floor, seeing someone with slicked-back hair and a suit fighting against the shadows again. 

The Googles pressed themselves against the wall, shooting glances from Dark’s cloud to Google_R’s body, understanding that whatever was happening was bigger than they were. 

The Host only leaned, and listened. 

The room held its breath. 

Bim stepped to the side, then forward, then forward again. “Dark, I’m not going to fight you.”

“Y̺̝̟̫o̸̘u̴̬͕̟ ̖̹̭͙͙͙d̹̬̺i͙̦͙͟d̕ ̮̼͠t͕̲́h̛̦̝̺̬i͖̰͓̜ͅs̹̺.”

“You did this to yourself.” Bim moved forward, nearly in the center of the room, in the eye of the storm. “You can stop this yourself.”

“Y̶̞̝̤̲̩̝ͅọ͇͔̗̼͔͟u̥̜͙̭̥͕ ̺̰̭͚d̖̜̦̮̙͢o̸̼̼̠̭ͅn̗̱̤͎̬̲'t͘ ͚͖̮̤̭̞u͇͜n͙̳ͅd̹͚̥̜e̱̙̼ṟ̸s͉͓͕̬ta͙͚͔͖͇͉̠n̤̫̣͖̺̟d̞.”

“I think I do.” Bim pushed his aura out, purple and plum where it mixed with the smoke surrounding them. With the glow of fresh rain, Bim paused. “Dark, please.”

Dark didn’t speak again, eyes glowing slits in the shadows. 

Bim extended a hand, and felt the magic tug at something behind his stomach. “We can still fix all this.”

Lighting flashed outside, but Bim only had eyes for Dark, standing in the midst of his own hurricane. It had centered itself around Bim, and not a hair on his head was ruffled. Bim smiled as best he could, hard determination welling in his chest. 

“Please, Dark. Just let me in.”

Dark took a step towards Bim, and Google_R steadied himself to leap between them: anything to stop the killing blow from hitting its mark. 

Another step, and Bim steeled himself, forcing himself not to flinch away from the hunger in Dark’s eyes. 

_We want the same things, you and I._

_This’ll work?_

_I promise._

Dark reached out, slow at first, then all at once, and took Bim’s hand. 

The smoke died down, water whirlpooling to nothingness. In a moment, the room was clear again, and it was Dak and Bim clasping palms in the center of the office. 

* * *

Things seemed to move quickly, after that. The Googles whisked Google_R and Wilford away, a warning word to the Host as they left. 

Dark was gone in a whirl of smoke—more a ‘thank you’ than an ‘I’m sorry’—and Bim and the Host were left alone. 

“You did it. The Host knew that you would.”

Bim didn’t speak, staring at the spot that Dark had just vacated. The Host shuffled over, brushing a gentle hand over Bim’s shoulder. 

“Did I, though?” Bim’s voice was smaller than he’d meant for it to be, a child seeking comfort. 

“What more was there that you could have done? Everything has come to pass in the only way that it could have.”

“Not Dark,” Bim bit out. The Host couldn’t see his face, but he knew that Bim’s brow was furrowed in something close to frustration. “Me.”

“Yes.” The Host turned, starting to walk out of the room. “You have come to pass, Bim.”

Bim let his shoulders drop, finding the answer to his question in the Host’s voice, and offered him a watery laugh on his way out. 

As the Host disappeared through the door that led to the figments’ office, Bim looked down, forcing himself to relax. His skin still tingled, as if electricity ran palpable across its surface, and there was a hot flash of warmth to it all, despite the still-pouring rain. It wasn’t Dark falling to his knees that gave Bim this feeling, though it certainly _helped_. It wasn’t their friendship, however much it had grown.

No, there was something deeper to this feeling, this Halloween night, and Bim felt it coming like clouds before a hailstorm, a greenish tint to the sky. 

The Googles whisked him off to bed, too, silent in their concern. Bim was grateful, as much as he could be. Talking seemed to be too much, just now. 

He felt the moment that midnight struck, the first of November beginning with every spark of magic drained from his eyes. Bim waited, waited until the clock had stopped chiming, before closing his eyes. The power that lined his bones with silver was gone, at least for now. At least, until next Halloween. 

* * *

Dr. Iplier waited until the others were occupied with the Twilight Zone before hurrying out of the clinic, real scrubs and coat splattered liberally with blood. Lightning, while powerful, was nearly useless without something to capture it. Likewise, vessels were useless without something to fill them. 

It only took him a few minutes, then, to reposition the makeshift wires on top of the building, rain drenching him from head to toe. Sopping wet, Dr. Iplier tracked puddles back to his room, shivering. 

Not long, now.

The second strike of lightning was enough to push his contraption over the edge, monitors whirring to life, pulsing hundreds of thousands of volts through his makeshift surgery table. 

The stink of burning flesh filled the room, sweet and rotten. 

Dr. Iplier pulled the last switches with a craze in his eyes, fingers shaking. This _had_ to work.

But when the smoke—not magic or miasma, but real smoke—had faded, the inside of the room was still as lifeless as it had ever been. 

Dr. Iplier ran out of defibrillators by the time that he decided to call it a night, call his project a waste. He nearly ran into the Host on his way to his room, laughing off the tension in his shoulders, crawling into bed with the weight of defeat hanging over him. 

And under a sheet, in the depths of his clinic, something moved. 

* * *

The morning of November first found each of the figments washed in golden light, fresh power gilding their movements. 

Wilford was awake first, and made it loudly obvious to the other occupants of the office.

“It’s beginning to look a lot liiiiiike Christmas—”

“Wilford, shut _up_.”


End file.
